


Finding the Right Words

by lied_ohne_worte



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:23:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lied_ohne_worte/pseuds/lied_ohne_worte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What might Faramir's thoughts be during the night before Aragorn's coronation? ONE-SHOT. 2006 MEFAwards Winner, Category "Races: Men; Post Sauron's Fall".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding the Right Words

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of an old fic; maybe it will find some new readers.

_Minas Tirith, April 30th, 3019_

Faramir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, could not sleep. Although many of the people in the City were staying awake this night, waiting impatiently for sunrise, some of them already celebrating the events to come, Faramir himself had planned to take a more practical approach. He knew that, in the morning, he would end a period of Gondor's history that had lasted almost a thousand years, by giving the crown to the rightful King. Then he would be at his Lord's side during the celebrations, to introduce the countless nobles and officers that would surely want at least a word with King Elessar. Probably late at night then, he would show the King to his rooms that had been renovated and furnished as well as the situation after the war allowed. The next days would be full of work: although Faramir did not yet know what new office Elessar had in mind for him, if any, he knew that he would probably need at least a week to hand over his office properly and to explain the procedures of the bureaucracy to the King.

So, aware of the requirements of the following week, Faramir had planned to sleep at least the few hours he had learnt to manage with as a soldier. When he had overheard some of the scribes arranging to spend the night on a part of the walls that offered a particularly good view over the Pelennor, he had wondered for a moment why he did not feel the urge to do a similar thing. Finally the explanation had come to him: he had waited for the return of the King not only one night or the time between their first meeting and this night, but his whole life. So, ever since he had woken in the Houses of Healing from the call of his Lord's voice, he had felt a peace unlike any he had known before. Not even the fear and impatience that had lingered over the city until the Eagle had come had managed to disturb that peace. So instead of the buzzing excitement everyone else in the city had seemed to emanate, Faramir had felt a deep contentment at what would come. Of course he had exchanged messages with his new Lord, his uncle and several others, but after his last preparations had been made, he had retired to his chambers in the late afternoon.

He had sat in a comfortable chair on one of the balconies in the Steward's rooms and gone through the proceedings of the morning in his mind one last time. His page would wake him three hours before sunrise. He would bathe and dress in formal robes. Then he would meet with Hurin of the Keys, who had the Crown in his keeping since Faramir had retrieved it from the Hallows. A group of Citadel Guards would take the casket with the Crown and follow Faramir and Hurin down to the Gates. Then they would wait. After sunrise, the King would come forth, and Faramir would hand over the staff that had been made for this occasion, thereby giving Gondor into Elessar's hands. Then... and here Faramir stopped. He had never actually thought about what he would say on his first "official" meeting with the King. It would have to be something formal, fitting for the sincerity of the moment, yet he would have to make it clear that he welcomed the coming of the King with all his heart. But what would he say? "Welcome, my Lord!" was not nearly enough. "I am your servant, my Lord!" did not make clear that he fully accepted the King's claims. "The crown of Gondor is yours!" was the truth, yet it would sound as if Faramir gave over lordship involuntarily.

Not knowing what to say was an unusual feeling for Faramir. He had studied the records of the city, read tales and poetry of old and also written poems himself when his duties allowed. But never had he read anything that could help him now. Most people would not understand his troubles about a few words, but the words Faramir chose would not only influence his relation to his new King, but also decide how some of the Gondorian lords would accept the change. Of course there was also the fact that Faramir's word would be written down, learnt by scholars and taught to the children, just as Faramir himself had once learnt the words Elendil had spoken upon his arrival to Middle-earth and the oaths of Cirion and Eorl. So what could he say that was fitting for the situation, expressing his feelings towards his Lord, and worded well so that the historians would not feel the need to change his words in their recordings?

The shadows grew longer and longer, and Faramir had not found a solution. Finally, sighing, he stood up and decided to look over the preparations for the feast one last time. When he stepped into the corridor, his page, who had settled on a stool with a mug of tea, jumped to his feet. Faramir signalled him with a wave to stay where he was and directed his steps to the Hall of the King. Here and there in the corridors, servants were still busy with cleaning and moving furniture. When Faramir passed them, they bowed or curtsied, and he replied with a nod. These gestures of reverence still startled him from time to time, but somehow they had helped him to accept that his father's death was real and he was now, for whatever short time, Steward of Gondor.

The nearer Faramir came to the Hall, the more servants were hurrying through the passages. As the King would be sitting on his throne and accepting the oaths of his nobles before the feast, the tables could not yet be prepared in the Hall. So tables, benches, and some chairs for the highest nobles had been crammed into almost every side-room, together with baskets and trays full of plates, goblets, and cutlery. Bread, fruits, bottles of wine and whatever food could still be found in the storerooms or brought from the few fiefs that had not been attacked were also stacked in the rooms which looked completely unorganised to Faramir. Yet he knew that the household staff was experienced in such matters and would be able to set the tables quickly while the King was showing himself to the people in the court in front of the Tower of Ecthelion after the swearing of the oaths.

Before the door to the Hall guards in black and silver were stationed, standing at attention when they saw Faramir. One of them pushed the door open, and Faramir, giving a short nod, entered the cool silence of the Hall of Kings. He had taken a side entrance which was located to the right of the Steward's chair, between the carved images of Elendil and Anárion that were standing at the side of the Hall. Looking up at the chair of the Steward and the throne of the King, Faramir wondered if it would have been better to remove the Steward's chair to make clear that the only throne that would count from now on was that of the King. But he decided that it would be more fitting to do this on the King's order and perhaps in a small ceremony. So the black seat remained, although Faramir had not yet sat in it. His conferences with those who laboured in the City had first taken place in the Houses of Healing, later in the Steward's study or wherever the people he had to talk to worked.

But now a sudden instinct made Faramir walk up to the chair. Hesitatingly, he touched the black stone, feeling its coolness and smoothness. Then, without really knowing why, he turned and sat down. He closed his eyes for a moment, When he opened them again, the calmness he had lost in his search for the right words came back. His gaze was drawn to the left, where the statue of Elendil was standing in the shadows. And, almost automatically, Faramir began to recite the Line of Kings under his breath: "Elendil, Anárion, Menendil, Cemendur, Eärendil..."

This was a habit he had often practised during the past years. On a march with his Rangers, in a night spent in a cold tent, whenever he needed to calm himself, Faramir had mentally gone through what he had learnt from his tutors, gathered from Gandalf's tales or read himself in the archives. Somehow the knowledge of Gondor's history had helped him to stay calm and concentrated, and at the same time it had reminded him of the hope that he held deep in his heart that one day the King would return and the threat of Sauron would be no more. It had made him aware of the reason he was fighting and working: to ensure that there would be a realm for the King when he returned.

So when Faramir now recalled the Line of Kings, it was with a feeling of completion. With every name he pictured the face that belonged to it as it was conserved in a statue at the wall of the Hall, or, in case of the Kings that were considered to be less important, in the Royal library. Soon he did not even need to think the names anymore: the faces appeared in his mind as clearly as if he were really looking at the statues. Face upon face he saw: some stern and commanding, others kind and remote. Then, when the face of Eärnur had disappeared from his inner eye, another image appeared that Faramir had not expected to see: Mardil, the first of the Ruling Stewards. He did not look like a carved image but like a man of flesh and blood. And only when Mardil greeted him with a solemn nod did the Steward realise that he was now experiencing a vision.

One by one the Stewards appeared from the shadows of the Hall, their physical forms growing more distinct until they seemed to be solid, and then faded again. Some looked as though they were burdened by the responsibility of their office, others full of confidence, but all of them glanced at Faramir approvingly, as if they were applauding him for his willingness to give up the reign of the country they had retained for so long. Yet the more of the Stewards passed, the more agitated Faramir became: he knew who would appear at the end of the line, and he wondered what he would look like. So when his grandfather Ecthelion had appeared and disappeared again, Faramir tried to break out of the vision, but he could not do so. With a feeling of apprehension he saw his father stepping from the shadows. But it was not as he had feared: instead of the burning outline that still appeared in his nightmares, he saw a man of wisdom and strength, younger than he had been when he had died and completely unharmed by fire. The despair that had sometimes been in Denethor's eyes when he believed himself alone had disappeared, along with the mistrust that had been directed at many people, including at times Faramir himself.

Unlike the other images Faramir had seen, his father lingered before his sight. His gaze expressed only love and concern for his son, and for Faramir this was a moment of healing. Just when he closed his eyes to suppress his tears, he heard his father's voice: "My son, it is good that you are the one to do this. You are most worthy of the task, and you will not fail."

When Faramir opened his eyes again, he saw his father disappear, the smile still on his face. And it seemed to him that he saw two other shadows hovering behind him: one was a slender woman, clad in a blue mantle, the other a man, carrying a large shield. But before Faramir could decide if he they were really there, the vision faded, leaving only the empty Hall before his eyes. He sank back in his chair, and now the tears fell. But they were tears of love and gratitude, and when they subsided, he felt strengthened for what was to come. He stood up, ascended the stairs, and knelt to the King's throne. After remaining on his knees for a moment, he got up, bowed to the throne again and stepped down the stairs.

And suddenly, the Steward of Gondor knew what he would say to his Lord in the morning.

* * *

 

"Faramir met Aragorn in the midst of those there assembled, and he knelt, and said: 'The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office.' And he held out a white rod; but Aragorn took the rod and gave it back, saying: 'That office is not ended, and it shall be thine and thy heirs' as long as my line shall last. Do now thy office!'"

_J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, The Steward and the King_

**Author's Note:**

> Faramir is, and has always been, the one of Tolkien‘s characters I like best. He has many facets and often expresses a wisdom that seems to be that of Tolkien himself. Although I like many things about Peter Jackson‘s movies, I am neither content with the way he showed Faramir nor with leaving the crucial scenes for understanding Faramir as a character out of the script.
> 
> I thought about writing this for quite a while, as I have always been wondering how Faramir spent the night before the return of the King. This is one of the possible scenarios I could imagine. Faramir‘s vision is strongly inspired by the vision the hobbits have when Tom Bombadil tells them about the Dunédain. As this is a vision from "Gondorian" point of view, Faramir sees the rulers of Gondor and not the heirs of Isildur.
> 
> I would like to express my thanks to many writers on this and other sites whose stories I enjoy to read. If thoughts and ideas I read in their works have resurfaced in this piece, it was not from a desire to copy, but because what they wrote has influenced my view of the characters and places more strongly than I have realised.
> 
> My thank to Cressida for betaing this!
> 
> Above all else, all of us have to thank J. R. R. Tolkien, who created the world we are now playing with, hopefully honouring what he created.


End file.
